Focus on Me
by yerrr87
Summary: In the aftermath of the Battle of the Seven Potters, Fred is focused on one thing.


Disclaimer: HP not mine.

Everyone thought he had trouble focusing, with keeping his attention on one thing at a time. His parents, and later, teachers, had bemoaned Fred's flitting eyes, his hyper-awareness of others, his insistence on joining multiple conversations, invited or not. His focus, or perceived lack thereof, had been a detriment, but it was also a strength: in planning pranks, or Quidditch plays, or surprise parties, there were few details he missed. It's why the Wheezes had worked from the moment they'd opened, why he and George were such good Beaters, why they were becoming increasingly valuable to the Order.

The cost of that valuation, however, was lying across the bedroom with a stark white bandage wrapped around his head. Fred sat upright in their darkened room, his eyes straining to catch the gentle rise and fall of his brother's chest as he slept. As pleased as he had been at the moment that George's first instinct had been to make a joke, Fred knew it had been a facade, that he'd come close to losing his twin. The sight of George prone on the sitting room couch, an open wound on his head — it would be enough to keep anyone up at night. It was a miracle their mother hadn't insisted on sleeping in the twins' room.

Fred synced his breathing with his twin's, inhaling and exhaling deeply in time with the rhythms of deep sleep. Staring across the room, he let his mind wander: if they had been together, would Snape's curse have hit? Fred didn't fancy himself a better duelist than Lupin, he'd been his bloody teacher after all, but still… He knew that that hadn't been the plan, the whole point was seven Potters and he'd honestly been happy to go with his dad. Known that no matter what, he'd have been the one watching his father's back. How do you quantify the safety of one family member over another?

He'd always been good with numbers, too, another testament to his selective focus (a phrase he had gotten from McGonagall during career counselling, which had amused him greatly at the time). Arithmancy, the books at the shop, it was no problem. It had been rather disturbing to learn over the past few months that there were no such formulas for the value of a life.

George shifted slightly, and Fred snapped to with a start. His brother's eyes gleamed in the dark, observing him piercingly. He wondered how long George had been awake.

"Watching me sleep, pervert?" George started to sit up in bed, rather slower than normally, Fred noticed.

"No, don't —" Fred got up in a tangle of sheets, almost tripping over his pajama pants in his rush.

"I'm fine, mate." George turned on his side gingerly and looked up at his twin, hovering over him. "Making sure we didn't die in the night?" he said, smiling.

"Essentially," said Fred flatly, no longer in the mood for bravado and ear puns. It was easier to feel in the dark, away from concerned eyes.

"Mm," George intoned, looking more serious now. "Seriously, I'm alright. Just a — a headache, I guess."

"Want a water or something?" Fred looked around the room aimlessly, hoping his twin would say yes. Maybe it wasn't easier, not when someone that knew your innermost feelings was gazing up at you.

"No. Are you alright?"

They looked at each other, something wordless passing between them. George shifted over, and Fred sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed.

"I'm not a bloody invalid," George said, sighing. "It'll be fine. I'm fine."

"You're not fine, George. You almost got decapitated in mid-air," said Fred hotly.

"And I didn't. It could have been worse. Bro…" he trailed off as Fred buried his face in his hands. "Fred, what -?"

"I can't believe they got fucking Mad Eye," Fred groaned, pressing his palms into his eyes so that stars appeared in the darkness. "Everything he's done, for it to just be, you know." He felt George grab his forearm, the pressure soothing him. He took a deep breath, and said lowly, "I couldn't have handled if it were you." He felt the grip on his arm tighten, and then release.

"I'm glad it was me," said George. "Well — not glad, I guess, but — you know what I mean."

"I do," said Fred, lowering his hands.

They looked at each other, two parts of a whole that was no longer entirely there.

"Can we …" Fred trailed off. As children, they had often slept in the same bed, finding their way to each other no matter the obstacles their parents had put in their way. Of course, they had stopped once they went to school, knowing that their classmates would degrade the habit. The last time they had fallen asleep together, it had been their fourth year, the day they'd gotten the news about Ginny and the Chamber of Secrets. Lee Jordan had happened upon them in the dormitory top to tail, gripping each other's legs in a plea for security. They hadn't had to tell him then that this was not to be repeated, this unspoken practice between twins.

"Yeah," said George, moving over to make room for his brother. Fred laid down next to him, taking care not to disturb the intricately wrapped bandages. They faced each other, pretenses laid aside.

"You can't —" Fred felt his throat close painfully, and swallowed. "You're fine. Right?"

"Right," said George, closing his eyes once more. "You can't either, OK?"

"OK."

They fell asleep like that, breathing synced, gripping each other's wrists, shoulders, anything.


End file.
